


Adjective Noun

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: A series of tumblr writing prompts based on (mostly) adjective-noun couplets. Various characters and pairings, per the tags.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 49
Kudos: 151





	1. Moonlight Dancing - Jon/Martin

The world doesn’t end, in the end. Doesn’t change, terribly and irrevocably. It comes as something of a surprise.

In the stunned, momentous quiet of the world that didn’t end, Jon stands up in the rubble of the Magnus Institute and watches the others do the same. Daisy and Basira leaning on each other; Melanie accepting Georgie’s hand to help her to her feet. _Alive_ , all of them, beneath the moon that only minutes ago had and blinked down at them, rolling in some vast, non-existent socket.

And then there’s Martin, who stumbles to his feet several yards from Jon, looking as if he can’t quite believe it all. Martin’s clothing is torn and there are ashes in his hair, blood smeared across his cheek. He looks pale, washed out in the light of the moon, which is just the moon now, milky and meteor-pocked. His eyes meet Jon’s, wild and wide.

“Did we win?”

“Well,” Jon says, “We’re not dead.”

Martin laughs at that, relieved and exhausted and a little bit giddy, and Jon finds himself laughing too, though his ribs ache at the motion. Martin picks his way carefully through the scorched brickwork to Jon, and stands in front of him, no longer laughing. He looks at Jon quite seriously, though his eyes are bright, and holds out a hand to him.

“Well then?”

“What, ah…?”

“You promised earlier,” Martin reminds him. “If we didn’t die, you’d dance with me.”

“Oh, well, that was - ” Jon feels himself flush, embarrassed. “I mean, that was in the heat of the moment, I didn’t think you actually _meant_ it.”

“I did,” Martin says. “And a promise is a promise.”

A promise _is_ a promise, Jon supposes. And doubly so a promise to Martin, who Jon’s only just got back after so long lonely, whose laugh is infectious and whose eyes Jon can’t look away from, their blue unbleached by the moonlight.

Jon reaches out his hand, scarred and trembling, and places it in Martin’s. Martin squeezes it gently, and pulls Jon into his arms, arranging hands on shoulders and hips in a way Jon doesn’t understand or care about.

“There’s no music,” Jon murmurs, resting his cheek against Martin’s shoulder.

“No,” Martin agrees. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Jon says. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Martin is close, and warm, and _here_ , that Martin has him. That they have each other.

They sway together beneath the light of the moon that is only the moon, in the brief, blessed stillness of the world that didn’t end. They’re clumsy, tired and aching, stepping on each other’s toes and tripping over bits of bricks. But they hold onto each other, and keep dancing.


	2. Love Notes - Jon/Martin

There’s a plastic-wrapped M&S sandwich sitting on Martin’s desk when he gets back from the library. He stares at it for a moment, then glances around the room, as if there might be a team of suspiciously helpful spiders lurking in the corners. There aren’t, of course; the room is cobweb free.

“Peter…?” he ventures. No response. Martin picks the sandwich up gingerly, and only then notices the sticky note attached to it. He recognizes the handwriting immediately, and his heart gives a hard thump in his chest.

_I told him not to find me,_ he thinks crossly. But, well, Jon didn’t find him, did he? He only found where Martin _wasn’t_ , while he was in the library, and left a - he looks at the package - brie and bacon sandwich sitting on his desk. With a note, which reads: **You need to eat.**

It reminds Martin of dozens of similar notes he’s left Jon over the years, frustrated at Jon’s constant lack of even the slightest concern for his own body. Is that what Jon thinks - that he isn’t taking care of himself?

Martin sighs. He shouldn’t encourage this. But he is hungry, and this _is_ one of his favorite sandwiches (he’d like to think it’s a sweet gesture that Jon knows, if it wasn’t more likely that Jon just Knows; but he did go to the effort of getting it, so it’s still sweet in its way).

He eats the sandwich, and doesn’t crumple the sticky note up and throw it in the bin, although he knows he should.

There are more notes. Attached to sandwiches, to cups of tea that appear while he’s in the lavatory **(Two sugars, right?)** , to a folded-up umbrella **(It’s due to rain later).** Once, excitingly, attached to a heavy duty torch with the note: **Be careful in Victoria Station this week.**

It would probably seem a bit invasive and creepy, if they were normal people in a normal workplace. As it is, Jon using his spooky powers to make these little gestures…well, it feels nice, to be thought of. Jon doesn’t turn up in person, or ask for anything in return, no guilt trips or pleas. Just… _cares_ about Martin.

**Get some rest, you’re overworking yourself,** appears on his office door after he’s pulled an all nighter. Martin snorts. Jon has enough to worry about himself these days. Martin’s fine.

**Happy birthday,** shows up propped against an oversized chocolate muffin with a lit candle jabbed into the center of it. Martin feels his eyes watering, because god, it _is_ his birthday, isnt it? He’d completely forgotten. _God, Jon._ He blinks the wetness away, and blows out the candle.

Later, after - everything happens with Peter, Martin doesn’t go back down to the Archives. He should, he knows, but he just feels so stupid about it all. Thinking he could out-manipulate a monster and save the world single-handedly. The thought of going down there and facing all of them, the questions and accusations, all those voices after so long alone and quiet… it makes him feel hot and panicky, like his skin’s too tight. So the next day he goes back to his office on the second floor, and does paperwork that no one’s asked him to, and tries not to think about what comes next.

He works late, trying not to think about it.

He comes back from a trip to the lavatory, and finds a thermos sitting on his desk. The note attached to it reads: **On the roof if you’d like to talk.** Martin stares at it for a while. He’s not sure he can. He wants to. His heart is racing.

On the roof, he spots Jon sitting with his back against the parapet wall, head tipped up to the stars. It’s dark up here, but for the moonlight, and when Jon looks over his face is a vague sketch, his eyes shining. It feels safer, somehow, than seeing Jon in broad daylight. Jon doesn’t say anything as Martin approaches, hesitates, then sits down beside him. Martin’s heart is pounding: at being so close to Jon, at what Jon might say, at all the unknown unknowns. The silence stretches out for a long moment, and then Jon says:

“Do you want to pour the tea?”

“Oh,” Martin says, “Right.”

He does, with shaking hands. The thermos is one of those clever ones with a cup at each end, so he pours for each of them, and passes one to Jon. Their fingers brush as he does, and Martin just manages not to gasp. It’s been a long time since he’s touched another person.

The tea is hot and sweet, although Martin knows Jon doesn’t take sugar. Made to Martin’s tastes, not his. That understanding curls in Martin’s stomach, warmer than the tea itself.

“How are you, Martin?” Jon asks eventually. Martin considers. How is he? That’s a question he hasn’t really even thought to ask in a while.

“Not - not great, honestly,” he says, and because he can’t help himself: “How are you?”

“Honestly?” says Jon. “Not great.”

It’s not funny, but Martin huffs a quiet laugh and hears a _hmm_ of amusement from Jon. He can just make out the wry smile on Jon’s lips in the darkness, and Martin’s heart aches at the sight of it. He never saw Jon smile much, even back when things weren’t awful, and it always felt like a small victory when he did.

“I got your notes,” Martin says. “They were - they helped. Thank you.”

“Right, good,” says Jon. “That’s good. I was worried I was just…bothering you, if I’m honest.”

“No!” Martin insists. “No, they really - It meant a lot, knowing you were…thinking of me.”

He doesn’t tell Jon how he sat in his office at the worst moments, reading through the pile of sticky notes, trying to hold himself together against the loneliness that threatened to overwhelm him. How sometimes those little scribbled notes were the only reminder he had that he hadn’t been forgotten, that someone cared about him. Maybe he’ll tell Jon, someday, but for now it’s all still too raw. He lets out a long, shuddering breath.

“I’m not sure if I can come back.”

“That’s…okay,” Jon says, and his voice is so gentle Martin could cry. “You don’t have to, not right away. Not at all if you won’t want to. We want you to, of course - _I_ want you to. But. It’s up to you.”

He sets his cup down and turns to face Martin entirely. Even in the dark he looks - worn down, wounded in some deep and unseen way. Martin knows what Jon’s being going through, at least a little. And still he’s been worrying about Martin, trying to show him that he’s cared for, all this time.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, his tone awkward and painfully sincere. “So much, I can’t - I still miss you. If you…don’t want to come back, I understand. I just wanted to be clear. About it all.”

Martin wants to laugh, and cry, because none of this is clear and he doesn’t know what he wants, he only knows that he wants to see Jon every day - in broad daylight even - that the sight of him was the thing Martin missed most. That knowing Jon still cared was what kept him going.

Daring, Martin reaches out for the hand he brushed earlier. Jon’s left hand, the hand he writes with. The hand that wrote all those notes, that told Martin he was cared for, and missed. That he meant something. He catches Jon’s fingers in his and holds them gently. They’re very warm.

“I missed you too,” Martin tells him, his voice catching on the words. “I don’t want to anymore.”

Jon’s fingers curl around his, and his hand squeezes Martin’s tight. Reminding Martin one more time that he’s cared for. That Jon won’t leave him alone. All the rest, they can figure out together.


	3. Intricate Tattoos - Peter/Elias

The tattoo is an apology. Elias doesn’t quite recall what Peter’s apologizing for this time - there are always so many things - and since he hasn’t been speaking to Peter for six months because of…whatever it was that Peter did, he’s entirely forgotten. However, the fact remains that Peter came to apologize, and his suggestion for making amends, was for Elias to design him a tattoo.

Elias finds the idea rather delightful, and spends some time considering his options. He dismisses the idea of a joke tattoo out of hand. Peter is almost impossible to embarrass, and would wear anything intended to humiliate or humble him as a badge of honor. Besides, Elias is the one who has to look at him. Instead he tries to look at this as an opportunity. Peter’s tattoos are beautifully inked, but rather gauche, all compasses and bare-breasted mermaids and ships at full sail. Elias has always had a bit of artistic flair, and this is his chance to impart some taste to Peter’s gallery.

He spends weeks drawing and redrawing the design. The base image is an octopus, because he wants to match the general oceanic theme, its limbs curled about with wisps of fog and spattered with ocean spray. The arms are a labyrinthine coil, and from between them peek the merest suggestion of terrified human faces, pleading, outstretched hands. Instead of suckers, each limb is covered in rows of wide, staring eyes.

Elias is rather pleased with it. He shows the final result to Peter, who gives a low whistle.

“You have the soul of an artist, love,” he comments. “Or possibly a serial killer.”

“This was your suggestion,” Elias reminds him.

“Oh don’t worry, I well remember, and I’ll wear your nightmarish design with pride.”

The tattoo parlor is a high end place that seems familiar with Peter, enough to shut the whole place down for his visit. They don’t question Elias sitting there throughout the eight hour session, enthralled as he watches the scene. Peter looks delicious, straddling the chair shirtless with his shoulders flared broad, the needle buzzing across the pale skin of his back. There’s something at once brutish and vulnerable about the pose, which Elias finds terribly appealing.

Equally appealing are the little sounds of pain Peter starts making after the fourth hour, the way his breath hitches and his forehead furrows minutely. He never moves, though, and his eyes never leave Elias’. The unnerved tattoo artist takes occasional breaks for water and cigarettes and to use the bathroom, but Peter remains in place, holding Elias’ gaze. At one point while the artist is out of the room, Elias speaks to him for the first and only time in those eight hours.

“You’re holding up quite well,” he remarks. Peter chuckles.

“Wait until tonight,” he says, “I’ll show you how well I’ve held up.”

Peter is true to his word, and later Elias traces his tongue over the bloody lines of the tattoo while Peter arches hungrily into him, rumbling low in his chest. Elias is intoxicated, overcome by the sight: his Peter marked with _his_ design.

“You know this means you’re utterly mine?” he murmurs, heady with the knowledge of it.

“As long as my skin lasts, at least,” Peter laughs, and turns over to kiss him.

Well then, Elias will just have to make sure this skin lasts a good long time.


	4. Quiet Hiccups - Peter/Elias

They’re at Moorland House for the annual Lukas family gathering, which is a charming affair where the entire extended Lukas clan all get together and avoid making eye contact with each other for two days. Peter despises the annual gathering for a number of very good reasons.

Firstly, there’s nothing to do. Kent in general is as dull as ditchwater, and Moorland House is the bleak, dull, ditchwatery heart of the whole miserable county. There isn’t even a pub nearby.

Secondly, the people are duller than the house. Peter is aware that he’s been blessed with something of an…excess of personality, but honestly, if he has to spend one more evening attempting to hold a conversation with Aunt Frances while she stares over his shoulder, he might just burn the whole bloody house down with the family inside. And he couldn’t even do that because the moldering pile is too bloody _damp_.

_“Thirdly,”_ Peter begins, before Elias’ fingers close very tightly around his hand.

“Yes, Peter,” Elias says through gritted teeth. “I am very aware of how much you do not enjoy visiting your family, and all the reasons why. _Painfully_ so, you might say. However it _is_ only two days, and it pays to keep Nathaniel happy, so do put on your best dutiful brother face and _suck it up.”_

Peter goes quiet, and the car jolts and rattles down the country road towards Moorland House.

The gathering starts with the traditional silent dinner in the aptly named Long Hall, which is so long that, legend has it, hapless servants have become lost navigating from one end to the other. Peter is wearing a tailored suit that still somehow sits uncomfortably across the shoulders, squeezed between Elias and his great uncle Oscar. Uncle Oscar smells of mothballs and breathes in a slow, labored wheeze that sounds at every moment like it might be the last one. Peter is half praying that he falls dead into his scallops; at least it would liven things up a little.

Dinner passes in absolute, droning silence, as is traditional. Peter entertains himself by rubbing his foot up and down Elias’ inner calf, and occasionally dropping a hand into Elias’ lap for a quick grope. He half considers doing the old dropped fork routine and seeing how long he could get away with giving Elias head for, but dismisses it. Elias gets so fussy about that sort of thing.

Elias, of course, sits in perfect, pristine silence, pointedly ignoring all Peter’s attempts to fluster him. He doesn’t so much as touch his fork against his plate, and Peter sees Nathaniel give an approving nod when Elias finishes his entire bowl of consommé without slurping once. Elias gives Peter a significant look, one eyebrow arched, clearly pleased with himself. Peter scowls. Elias shouldn’t be trying to impress his family; they’re not worth impressing. Yes, Nathaniel controls the money, but so what? Money isn’t everything. And it’s not as if Elias’ precious Institute would ever go unfunded, as long as he has Peter.

And that’s it, isn’t it? Peter doesn’t like Elias cozying up to Nathaniel, playing into the Lukas family traditions. It feels like Elias is securing his place in the family’s good graces, preparing for the eventuality that he won’t have Peter anymore.

Peter knows why, of course. It’s because last year at this gathering they were married, and this year they’re married, but in between was a rather acrimonious divorce. They were only apart for a few months, but it seems Elias hasn’t forgotten, is still feeling insecure. Which is silly, because yes, all right, they’ve had their rough patches, but Peter would never abandon him. Not for more than a little while, enough to make him deliciously lonely and desperate for Peter’s affections. He doesn’t like the idea of Elias _not needing_ him anymore.

Peter sulks through the rest of dinner, scrapes his fork on the plate and chews loudly as he can. He spots Elias shooting him an irritated look, which he disregards. Spots Nathaniel glowering at him, and waves. At last, after an eternity, the final course is cleared away, and digestifs are served. Peter downs his calvados in a single swallow, and sits there listening to the silence.

And then, from beside him, there’s a sound. A small, abrupt sound that stops immediately. A few seconds pass, and it happens again. Peter turns his head. Elias is staring straight ahead, his lips pursed and looking utterly serene. Then that sound again, and with it Elias’ shoulders convulse for a second. He is, Peter realizes, hiccuping.

Elias reaches for his water glass and opens his mouth to take a drink, hiccuping loudly as he does. Several heads turn disapprovingly in their direction. Elias clamps his mouth shut again, but the small sounds continue, regularly, every few seconds. Nathaniel is frowning now, casting about the table for the person (other than Peter) who’s interrupting the sacred tradition of silence. He hasn’t noticed Elias’ shaking shoulders yet, but it’s only a few moments until he pinpoints the source. Peter grins, gleeful for a moment.

And then he sighs, and gets to his feet with a loud, exaggerated yawn.

“All right,” he drawls, shattering the quiet. Every head around the table swivels towards him, all equally pale and shocked. “This has been truly lovely, but it’s time I took my darling husband to bed. Come along, dear.”

He grasps Elias’ arm, and Elias lets himself be towed to his feet, still hiccuping quietly through his clenched teeth. His eyes meet Peter’s with something that might be gratitude, and Peter winks at him. Peter can feel Nathaniel’s eyes drilling silently into the back of his skull, but he doesn’t turn around as he leads Elias out of the room, whistling cheerfully to himself.

Up in their room, with its musty drapes and four poster bed, Elias gives him a look that might almost be shamefaced, on anyone who wasn’t Elias Bouchard.

“Thank you, Peter,” he says. “I appreciate you intervening.” Peter shrugs.

“I don’t care what those people think of me,” he says. “And neither should you. You’re mine, Elias, and you don’t have to ingratiate yourself with that flock of old crows.”

“Murder,” Elias says.

_“Bunch_ of crows,” says Peter. “The point is, you don’t need a backup plan, Elias. I’ll take care of your Institute, regardless of how things are between us personally. I promise.”

Elias stares at him for a long moment, looking as if he’s about to argue. He opens his mouth, and hiccups loudly. And somehow that’s it, Peter starts laughing. Elias doesn’t laugh, but his mouth does curve into a tiny smirk, even as his shoulders shake with another hiccup. Peter bridges the space between them and pulls Elias close, cupping his husband’s sharp jaw in his hands.

“You’re mine,” he tells Elias, letting his voice drop low. “And I’m yours. Okay?”

Elias nods, his mouth still clamped shut against the hiccups, and Peter brushes a gentle kiss against his lips. When he pulls away, Elias’ eyelids are fluttering pleasantly. Peter grins and waggles his eyebrows.

“How about we go to bed,” he suggests, “And see if we can’t find some way to startle those hiccups out of you?”

Elias rolls his eyes, and pushes Peter towards the bed.


	5. Cherry Cola - Jon/Martin

When Jane Prentiss attacks the Archives, they almost die, and Martin kisses him. It’s…not something important. The tape is off at the time, which - when Jon considers it much later on - means that it definitely wasn’t important. Not worthy of being recorded, interrogated by the Eye.

It’s right after Martin makes fun of Jon for thinking he might be a ghost, and Jon tells Martin to shut up. Martin comes and sits beside Jon on the floor, and the silence is loud with the squirming of tiny bodies outside the door, and they are both acutely aware that these are probably the last few minutes of their lives. Jon is considering that maybe he should have been a bit more truthful, with himself and everyone else, and then Martin says:

“Jon…” in a voice that is nervous and breathless, and when Jon turns to look at him, his eyes are afraid and hopeful.

“Look,” Martin says, “If we’re going to die anyway - ”

And Martin kisses him. His lips are soft against Jon’s, and…sweet, when Jon lets his own lips part. A flavor almost like sherbet, but not quite, and Jon thinks it would be cloying, if it weren’t on Martin’s mouth. Tries to forget that he thought that, as the hammering on the wall grows louder and they break apart, ready for death to break through.

It turns out it’s only Tim, and the rest is a matter of record. Jon doesn’t think about it again.

That’s a lie, of course. He thinks about it a _lot_ , even as he grows more and more sure that one of his archival staff is a murderer. (It’s not paranoia if someone is probably out to get you.) He is well aware that Martin kissing him does not in any way preclude him being Gertrude’s murderer.

But the point is, there are far more important things to worry about, and eventually Jon almost entirely forgets about it. Yes, it’s the first time he’s been kissed in years. And yes, it was probably the nicest thing that’s happened to him in a long time, impending worm death aside. But, well, it’s just terribly unimportant, and anyway Martin probably regrets it - if he’s ever even thought about it since, they were about to _die_ , after all, and -

Well it’s just. Not.

He doesn’t really think about it again for a long time, aside from those occasions when he lies in bed late at night, touching fingers to his lips and remembering that soft touch, that odd, sweet taste. Barely at all, really.

When Melanie takes her turn going to the chipper you never know what you’re going to get, because she’s terrible at remembering orders and refuses to write them down. This time she actually brings Jon what he asked for, which is a nice surprise up until he takes a mouthful from his allotted sugary soft drink and almost chokes. It tastes exactly like -

“What is this?” he sputters.

“Cola?” Melanie suggests, biting into a chicken tender. Then, squinting at it: “Cherry cola?”

“Why on earth would you - ” Jon begins before realizing the futility of the question. He stares at the offending beverage. His heart is suddenly racing. He gets to his feet.

He doesn’t knock on the door to Martin’s office, just barges straight in so Martin doesn’t have time to hide from him. Martin looks at him with startled indignation, and before he can launch into all the reasons why Jon shouldn’t be here talking to him, Jon says:

“Cherry cola.”

“I - what?” Martin says, looking bewildered. “Look, Jon, you can’t - ”

“Two years ago,” Jon continues over him, because this is important. “You kissed me in document storage because we were about to die, and I’ve…been thinking about it ever since, a bit. What it, ah, tasted like. And then today I got the wrong drink, and it was - awful, by the way, I don’t know how anyone drinks the stuff - but it was _that_ taste. From when you kissed me. Which…wasn’t awful.”

“I didn’t kiss you because we were about to die,” Martin mutters, looking down at his hands. Then, looking up: “Wait a minute, you’ve never had cherry cola before today?”

“That’s hardly the point, Martin.”

“So what _is_ the point then, Jon?”

“The point is - ” Jon begins, and stalls. What is the point? That two years later he still hasn’t forgotten Martin’s lips against his, firm and gentle? That he’s thought about it, far more than he should have? That until today it never occurred to him that the taste was anything other than _Martin_ , because Martin has always been something unique to Jon, even when that fact unsettled and irritated him.

“The point is, I should have asked you,” Jon says. “I should have - we should have talked about it. Not pretended it didn’t happen. We…should have talked about a lot of things.”

“We should have,” Martin says, and he doesn’t sound bitter, only sad, and tired. “But we didn’t. And it’s a bit late now, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t need to be.”

Jon walks carefully closer, around the desk. Martin is staring down at his hands again. He takes in a long breath that shudders a little. Jon can’t see his eyes.

“Two _years_ , Jon. Why are you bringing this up now? Because you’re _lonely?”_

“No,” Jon tells him firmly. “That’s not why. I’m just - sick of ignoring things and hoping I don’t have to face them. I’m sick of - of pretending I’m okay without you. And I need you to know. If you’re staying away from me because you don’t want to be around me, that’s fine, I respect that. But if you’re doing it for _my_ good, in some way, then…it’s not working, Martin.”

Martin looks up at him, and his eyes are red rimmed. He looks like someone who’s resolved to do something they don’t want to, and is now trying very hard to hang onto that decision.

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“You can’t,” Jon says, and he hears the wobble in his own voice. “I don’t know if that’s something Lukas told you, but you _can’t_. None of us are safe. None of us _will_ be. But I don’t want to miss you as well. I don’t want to - to not think about things anymore.”

The silence stretches between them for long moments, taut and breathless. Martin huffs a quiet laugh, and says:

“Lip balm.”

“What?”

“The - cherry cola flavor. It was lip balm that I got free at some soft drink promotion. I don’t think I used it more than a couple of times.”

“Right,” says Jon. “It was - nice.”

“Even though you think cherry cola is awful.”

“Even though,” Jon agrees. “Because it was you.”

“Jon…” Martin says shakily, and then he is pushing up out of his seat while Jon is bending down, and they end up poised awkwardly in the middle, braced against the desk. Their mouths meet, hesitant and careful, and Martin doesn’t taste of artificial sweetness, only of Martin, his lips a little dry and chapped, his hands cupping Jon’s face gently. Jon leans into it with everything he has, and god, he can’t believe he let himself miss out on this for two years.

“So, what do we do now?” Martin asks when they part. “I can’t just walk away from what I’ve been doing. It’s - important. Save the world important.”

“Can you…tell me about it? Maybe I can help?”

“I - yes, okay,” Martin says, his lips pursed. “But you have to promise, Jon. You’ll _listen_. And not just assume you’re right and I’m wrong.”

“I don’t - ” Jon begins and then nods. “Right, you’re right. I do that. I’ll try not to, I promise. I just…want to help. So you don’t have to do it alone.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and takes in a deep breath. “Okay. It…started while you were dead.”


	6. Leather Jackets - Jon/Georgie

Jon wakes at three in the morning. Not for any particular reason, other than the usual reasons he wakes in the middle of the night, the anxiety and uncertainty that found him in childhood and never went away. 

Georgie’s asleep with her back to him, the soft curve of her shoulders rising and falling gently beneath the sheets. He lies there watching her for a while, listening to her quiet breathing, amazed (as he frequently is) by the idea that someone like her would want someone like him.

He’s not good enough, he knows. Not _normal_ , precisely, with his fretful thoughts and the panic that overcomes him at odd times. Stiff and awkward in comparison with Georgie’s laid-back cool. And then there’s the, uh, sex thing, which Georgie swears she doesn’t mind, but how could she not? She _should_ , in fact, shouldn’t have to - to do without because of Jon’s weird hang ups. Really he brings nothing to the table but a sarcastic sense of humor and being a little more clever than average, and he is painfully aware that clever, sarcastic people are ten for a penny. What on earth does Georgie even see in -

Jon grits his teeth and clamps down hard on that thought. He’s been trying to do better at not thinking so negatively about himself, mostly at Georgie’s urging, and when he starts to go down this road he knows he needs to distract himself. He gets out of bed and heads for the kitchen. He’s not going to sleep again; might as well make coffee since he’s up.

While the kettle boils, he wanders restlessly around the room, glancing out the window and fidgeting with the books on Georgie’s shelves. He’s about to start picking nervously at his cuticles, when he notices Georgie’s jacket sitting over the back of a kitchen chair. Georgie’s always wearing that jacket, which used to belong to her dad. It’s almost inextricable from Georgie, as far as Jon’s concerned; the shape of it on her shoulders, the collar almost brushing her throat, the faint waxy scent of the leather conditioner she treats it with.

Jon runs his fingers over the dark leather. It’s soft with age, a bit worn and cracked in places, but cared for. Well loved. It feels pleasant beneath his fingertips, the way it does against his arm or his cheek whenever Georgie pulls him close. It’s oddly soothing. Jon bites his lip. He really shouldn’t…

He feels guilty as he slides his arms into the sleeves. This is Georgie’s most prized possession, a gift from her dad before he passed. It’s definitely not right for Jon to be wearing it.

The jacket is already too large for Georgie, so Jon is practically swimming in it, the ends of the sleeves almost brushing his fingers and the hemline falling past his hips. It sits heavy on his shoulders. Far heavier than he expected, in fact, but it’s a nice weight. Comforting. It smells like - well, it smells like worn leather, but that’s Georgie’s smell. It feels not unlike Georgie’s arms around him, a heavy, grounding warmth.

He makes a mug of instant coffee, and sits down on the sofa with it, still wearing the jacket. The collar brushes his jaw. Jon considers for a moment, and before he can talk himself out of it, ducks his arms out of the sleeves just long enough to pull his t-shirt off over his head. Snuggles back into the jacket, the quilted lining wonderfully soft against his bare skin.

He curls his legs up under him and drinks his coffee, feeling the tension start to drain from his shoulders. It almost feels like having Georgie here, her arms around him, but without him actually bothering her with all his ridiculous worries. After a little while, he’s almost starting to feel relaxed.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

He starts, almost spilling his coffee, as Georgie pads into the room. She looks tired and rumpled, her hair sticking out at all angles.

“Sorry,” Jon says. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have - ” He sets the mug down and starts pulling the off jacket hurriedly. Georgie blinks at him a couple of times, bewildered.

“What? It’s fine,” she says. “I don’t mind you wearing it.”

Jon pauses, flustered and embarrassed, because it’s one thing to wear your girlfriend’s jacket, but it’s another entirely to wear it with no shirt underneath. He pulls the jacket around him to cover up a bit.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Georgie asks. Jon shrugs.

“You know me,” he sighs, aiming for humorous but landing closer to weary. Georgie smiles.

“I certainly do. Want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. Georgie comes over and sits beside him on the sofa, wrapping both arms around his shoulders. She rests her chin gently on his shoulder.

“The jacket looks good on you,” she says. “Very sexy.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Jon mutters, flushing. He’s not sure he’s ever been called _sexy_ before, and while the association is a little uncomfortable, the playful way Georgie says it makes it…nice. A simple compliment, with no demands or expectations behind it. And that’s Georgie all over, isn’t it? He doesn’t deserve her, but he’s so glad she - for some reason - has chosen him anyway.

“It - it looks really nice on you too,” he says, and Georgie laughs softly. She kisses his cheek.

“I know,” she says, “But thank you, Jon. For that, you can borrow it whenever you want.”


	7. First Encounter - Jon/Martin

Martin’s willing to admit it was a bad decision. Stupid, really, to do what he did so close to home, but how often do you find something like that on your own doorstep? One of those Divine Host cultists living right in his building, it was practically gift wrapped. It was far too easy to strike up a conversation, play the lonely misfit, desperate for a connection. ( _Not actually much of a stretch there,_ he thinks.) The perfect victim to lure her in, and she had gone so eagerly, had never seen the strands until they closed around her.

In the end she had walked into the Web with her eyes open and horrified, unable to do anything else and utterly aware of what was about to happen, gushing helpless fear.

It’s probably fine, though,Martin reassures himself. Nobody saw them talking, and he didn’t leave any evidence. Well, no evidence that would point towards a person being involved. Anyway, the Met tend to gloss over the odder cases.

He is almost entirely convinced that he’s got away with it until someone buzzes his flat on a Wednesday evening and says he’s investigating the death of a resident. Martin considers for a moment, and then buzzes the front door open. It might be nothing, and if it isn’t, well…

The man that comes to his door isn’t wearing a uniform, and he doesn’t look much like a detective. He is thin and harried looking, and younger than the gray already peppering his hair would suggest, maybe only Martin’s age.

“Hi,” says Martin.

“Yes, hello,” the man says. “You’re…M. Blackwood?”

The man has a deep voice, with an accent that curls sharp and precise around every syllable. It’s a rather nice voice.

“Martin,” says Martin. “You said something about investigating a death?”

“That’s right - one of the residents of the building, Lisa Suarez. She lived in, uh…” He shuffles a file of paper in his hands. “In number 102. I’m following up on the case.”

“Oh, right,” Martin says. “Would you like to come in?”

“That would be - very helpful.” He sounds mildly surprised to be invited in, as if it doesn’t happen often. Martin steps aside and the man walks into his flat, juggling his files and notebook as he tries to remove his heavy overcoat.

“Tea?” Martin asks over his shoulder, already heading for the kitchen.

“Sorry?” the man says, still struggling with his coat.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, if it’s not too much trouble. Thanks.” He sounds even more surprised to be offered tea, and Martin smiles.

“It’s cold out today. A cup of tea usually helps. Make yourself at home.”

Martin busies himself in the small attached kitchen while the man sits down on the sofa, perching stiffly right at the edge of the seat and balancing his files and coat on the arm. A single brown spider skitters across the countertop as Martin pours boiling water into two mugs.

_Not just now,_ Martin thinks, and says: “Milk? Sugar?”

“Just milk,” the man replies. Martin brings the mugs and hands one over with an encouraging smile. He sits down in the armchair with his own tea.

“Sorry,” he says, “What did you say your name was?”

“Jonathan Sims,” the man introduces himself. “I’m with the Magnus Institute - maybe you’ve heard of us? I’m doing some follow up research on the…circumstances around Ms. Suarez’ death.”

Not police, then. Martin’s heard of the Magnus Institute, here and there over the years. A supernatural research organization as far as the public is concerned, bit of a laughing stock among skeptics. But also, from what Martin has gathered, a stronghold of some power in itself. He’s never had anything to do with it before, though, so he’s not sure what to expect.

“Circumstances?” he asks. “I knew the lady downstairs died, but I’d heard it was natural causes?”

“Almost certainly,” the man - Jonathan - says, waving a dismissive hand. “But the, uh, condition in which the body was found was rather unusual, so I was asked to look into it further.”

“Right,” says Martin. “So what can I do to help?”

“Have you seen any suspicious people around lately? Anyone…unfamiliar, around the area?”

“Hmm,” Martin says, “Not that I can think of. I know everyone who lives in the building by sight. And I haven’t seen any mysterious strangers recently, just the usual, postman and the like.”

Jonathan scribbles something in his notebook and nods.

“And have you noticed any - ” he hesitates, “Any unusual wildlife around the building? Specifically…spiders?”

He sounds embarrassed to even be asking the question, a self-deprecating twist to his mouth. Martin frowns theatrically, makes a show of considering it.

“Spiders?” he says. “No, nothing out of the ordinary. Why? Was she bitten or something? I heard there were venomous spiders migrating north with global warming and everything, but on the news it said they’re not deadly - ”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Jonathan shakes his head with mild disdain, writing another note.

“We had silverfish last winter,” Martin volunteers. “All over the building, you couldn’t move for them.”

“I see,” Jonathan sighs, sounding more bored by the second. “Well, thank you for your time Mr. Blackwood - ”

“Martin,” says Martin.

“Martin,” Jonathan concedes. Martin quite likes the way his name sounds in the man’s mouth, even if he does seem a bit of a superior prat.

“You’re sure you don’t want to ask me anything else?”

“No, no, I have everything I need.” Jonathan quickly drains his cup and starts gathering his belongings. Martin mirrors him as he stands up, and escorts him to the door.

“It must be very interesting,” he suggests, “Working for the Magnus Institute. All…spooky occurrences and that kind of thing?”

“Occasionally,” Jonathan says, pouring a wealth of disappointment and scorn into that single word. “Mostly it’s, well, not that at all. Hoaxes and optical illusions, mostly, and an unfortunate amount of untreated mental illness.”

“Oh. Well, if you need anything else, you know where I am.”

“Thank you,” says Jonathan. “And, uh, thank you for the tea.”

“Anytime,” Martin tells him, and smiles as he shuts the door.

Nothing further comes of the visit, and Martin doesn’t think of it again until a few months later when he sees a job posting buried in the back of the newspaper. Short and discreet, as if trying not to draw too much attention to itself:

_Researcher required. Must be willing to work in the field. Paranormal experience preferred. Proficiency with Microsoft Office beneficial. Apply c/o Mr. Elias Bouchard, Magnus Institute, SW3 4LG, London._

_Well_ , Martin thinks, _why not?_ It would have to be more interesting that Martin’s current job, the latest in a long string of boring office roles, distinguishable only by which slogan he repeats when he answers the phone. And having access to the Magnus Institute’s resources and knowledge could only be useful in finding suitable prey- it’s not as if eldritch cultists fall into Martin’s lap as a matter of course. Martin’s not sure if this advert has been drawn to his attention deliberately, or if it’s a coincidence, but either way, he likes the idea.

At his interview, Elias Bouchard quirks an aristocratic eyebrow at Martin’s CV and makes an enigmatic comment about _singular credentials._ His gaze pierces Martin right through, and Martin is very certain that this man knows a great deal more about him than should be possible. Elias offers him the job there and then, and shakes his hand with a veiled warning about ensuring extracurricular activities don’t impinge on the Institute’s mission.

On Martin’s first day, a familiar disheveled figure almost runs right into him, arms full of files.

“Careful,” Jonathan scolds, as if it had somehow been Martin’s fault he wasn’t watching where he was going. “Wait, don’t I know you?”

“Martin,” Martin reminds him. “We met a few months ago. My neighbor died and you were looking for spiders?”

“Right,” Jonathan nods, looking vaguely discomfited by the reminder. “And, uh, you’re working here now?” He glances at the Institute ID hanging around Martin’s neck.

“Just started,” Martin says. “You made it sound so interesting, I had to apply.”

“Right…” says Jonathan again, skeptical. “Well, uh, welcome to the Institute, I suppose?”

“Thanks,” says Martin. The man really is a terrible arse.

Unfortunately, he’s also very much Martin’s type.


	8. Quiet Hiccups - Jon/Martin

Martin is late. It isn’t like him to be late. As a rule he’s almost painfully punctual, because he doesn’t like to make anyone wait. In fact he’s typically _early_ , because he values everyone else’s time more than his own, which is a mindset Jon’s tried to ease him away from with limited success.

“It’s only polite,” Martin always says. “Being a few minutes early doesn’t do me any harm.”

“That’s stupid,” Jon grumbles in return. “If everyone thought the same thing then people would just keep getting places earlier and earlier. The whole point of a meeting time is to get there at _that_ time.”

At that point in the discussion Martin usually rolls his eyes at what he calls Jon’s ridiculous hypotheticals, and kisses him, and that usually ends the discussion.

Martin used to be late sometimes, back when they were in Research together. Jon used to take note the mornings Martin arrived late, rushing in red-faced and flustered, apologizing in loud whispers to the department head. Jon would tut internally, glancing at the clock in annoyance, because honestly, how difficult could it be to get into work on time? And did he have to be so disruptive when he did finally turn up? At the time, it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why he paid _quite_ so much attention to Martin Blackwood’s comings and goings.

It wasn’t until much later that Jon found out about Martin’s mum, and how many stressful mornings he spent on the phone with the care home, discussing treatment options and overdue bills and payment plans. Until he realized that if Martin’s late, it means something’s wrong.

Jon checks his phone for the third time to see if Martin’s texted. He hasn’t, and Jon’s thumb hovers worriedly over the screen. He should text Martin, make sure everything’s okay. Except Martin’s only five minutes late yet, and Jon doesn’t want to guilt trip him about punctuality - especially since he’s been trying to convince Martin to worry less about that. Instead he just sits outside the café where they’d agreed to meet, nursing a cup of coffee and worrying.

Finally he sees Martin coming down the street towards him, half jogging, looking out of breath, his hair askew and one arm curled protectively against his chest, under his coat. Jon stands up as he approaches, looking for signs of injury or pursuit; they’re a lot safer these days than they used to be, but that doesn’t mean they’re _safe_.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin calls, waving his other hand. He jogs up to the table and stands in front of Jon, breathing hard, his cheeks flushed.

“Are you all right?” Jon demands. “What happened? Did you hurt your arm?”

“What? No, I’m fine,” Martin puffs, regaining his breath. “I just - got sidetracked.”

“Sidetracked?”

Martin opens his mouth, and then Jon hears a faint squeak coming from under his coat. Martin grins sheepishly and withdraws his arm, revealing a ball of damp, spiky fur curled in his hand. Jon stares for a few seconds, and the thing squeaks again, its small body twitching abruptly.

“I think she has hiccups,” says Martin, smiling down at what Jon now realizes is a wet, bedraggled kitten.

“Where on earth did you get a cat from?”

“I was on my way to meet you, and I heard a noise coming from down in a drain. I shone my torch down, and there she was. All alone. She must have fallen in and her mum couldn’t find her. It took ages to fish her out.”

“You had a torch with you?” The kitten hiccups again, its whole body quivering with the force.

“Of course,” Martin says indignantly. “There’s one on my Swiss army knife. You never know when you’ll need it - and I might not have found her if I didn’t have it.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Of course. Well I’m glad you’re okay, I was - ” He stops himself before he can say _I was worried about you_ , because Martin was only a bit late, it’s fine, it’s nothing for Jon to be fussing over. Nothing he wants to make Martin feel guilty about.

Martin looks at him with a warm, fond expression, and Jon knows he’s understood anyway, and that Martin doesn’t mind, if Jon worries about him a little. The kitten hiccups again, and Jon strokes a finger over her head, between her ears.

“I suppose we’ve got a cat, then,” he says, and the kitten purrs in agreement until another hiccup interrupts it.

They name her Hiccup, in the end, which Jon insists is nonsensical and Martin insists is adorable, and she takes over their flat and leaves claw marks on all the furniture. Neither of them really mind, and she’s always very happy to see them, whether they arrive home early or late.


	9. Green Eyes - Jon/Martin

There’s something wrong, after Martin comes back to the Archives. There are lots of things wrong, of course; it would almost be easier to list the things that _aren’t_ wrong these days. But there’s something…niggling, at the fringes of Jon’s consciousness. Something about Martin that he can’t quite place.

Martin’s changed, as they all have. He stands straighter now, talks with more certainty, and yet at times he’s so much quieter, almost seeming to sink into the background. The Lonely’s influence is not only insidious, it is _lingering_. At odd moments, Jon is almost fearful that he could fade away again, and that they might not get him back this time. A silly fear; Martin made the choice to return to him - _them_.

Jon won’t burden Martin with his own insecurities and - and _neediness_ , the ridiculous maelstrom of emotion that keeps threatening to overflow and make an absolute mess of everything. Martin’s back, that’s all that matters. But he still finds himself watching Martin, more than is probably professional.

He’s subtle about it, of course, carefully observing through his open office door. Or at least he thinks he is, right up until Martin walks in and thumps his hands firmly onto Jon’s desk. He doesn’t quite slam them down, but the impression is the same. His mouth is tight with annoyance, blue eyes fierce.

“Jon,” he says, in the tone of someone trying to maintain their composure. “Are you…keeping an eye on me?”

“What? No, of course not. Why would I do that?” That same sense of _wrongness_ is prodding at Jon’s hindbrain again, flustering him even more than the fact that Martin’s apparently caught him staring.

“I have no idea. But every time I look up there you are, watching me like a hawk. Do - ” Martin breaks off, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Do you have suspicions about me? That I’m still working with Peter, or - ”

“No!” Jon interjects sharply. No, god, that’s the last thing he wants Martin to think. “I - I know you’re not. I trust you. I just…worry.”

_And there’s something wrong,_ he doesn’t say, something subtle that he can’t figure out, and it’s driving him up the walls with the need to _know_. Martin sighs.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Jon. I’m here. I’m _fine.”_ His tone is exasperated, but his expression softens, warmth stirring in the icy blue of his -

“Your eyes…”

“Pardon?”

“You…don’t have blue eyes. Or, you didn’t.”

Martin ducks his head, looking embarrassed.

“No,” he says. “I - I didn’t. A souvenir from the Lonely, I suppose. Peter’s are the same.”

Jon feels a pang of jealous anger at the thought of Martin sharing this with Peter. It’s petty, and he pushes it down _(he chose to come back; he’s here)_ but not before it brings him to his feet and around the desk. His heart is beating fast, adrenaline surging for absolutely no practical reason, honestly, the human body is utterly ridiculous. His lips are suddenly dry, and he licks them.

“Green,” he says softly. “You had - you _should_ have green eyes.”

Martin is staring at him, those blue eyes wide and startled, his lips parted. He’s very close, Jon realizes, and oh, there are all of those ridiculous emotions again, the ones he never intended to bother Martin with. But Martin’s face is flushed beneath its freckles, and Martin’s eyes are holding his, lovely and intense, and Jon could swear he sees a hint of green in the blue.

“You know what color my eyes are - were,” says Martin, wondering. “How do - I never knew you noticed.”

“I - I didn’t, for far too long,” Jon confesses, his voice cracking. “Not until it was too late.”

“It doesn’t have to be too late,” Martin tells him, and now Jon _knows_ he sees flecks of green in Martin’s eyes, vibrant and alive. “Not if we don’t want it to be.”

“Martin…” Jon can’t think of anything to say, to tell Martin all that he is, all that he _means,_ his throat dry and all his knowledge useless. And then he doesn’t have to, as Martin’s hand comes up to brush his cheek, and Martin is ducking down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Jon’s pulse is racing and he gasps against Martin’s mouth, and then the kiss is over and Martin is pulling away.

“Sorry I watched you,” Jon says, stupidly.

“It’s okay,” says Martin. “I - its good. I’m glad you noticed.”

Jons heart swells in his chest, and Martin is smiling at him, shy and warm. The green of his eyes is growing brighter by the second.


	10. Together Forever - Jon/Martin, Daisy/Basira

“So when are you going to make an honest man out of him?”

Martin spends a second choking around a mouthful of pasta, before looking at Daisy with an expression approaching alarm. He’s much too easy to fluster, honestly, she hardly has to try. After years of being mates, you’d think he’d be used to it.

“Sorry?”

“Jon. When are you finally going to marry him?”

“I don’t - what’s brought this on?”

Daisy shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich, chewing it thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Dunno,” she lies, smoothly. “Just, you two’ve been together how long now?”

“Nearly four years.”

“Four years,” she nods. “And you’re both stupid for each other. Thought you’d’ve taken the plunge by now.”

“I - I’ve never really thought about it,” Martin lies, badly. “I mean, the whole marriage thing, it’s a bit of a scam, isn’t it?”

“The whole _wedding_ thing is a scam, if you let it be. Marriage has benefits - tax, health stuff. Plus you want to marry him.”

“No I - ” Martin drops the pretense and sighs. “I mean, I suppose it might be nice, but I’m really not bothered. And I know Jon isn’t interested in that sort of thing.”

“How d’you know that?”

“Well, at _your_ wedding he wouldn’t shut up about how it’s an outdated institution, and he couldn’t understand what logical reason anyone would have to want to do it.”

“Yeah, that definitely doesn’t sound like Jon trying to convince himself.” Daisy rolls her eyes and takes another bite of her sandwich. Martin looks somewhere between thoughtful and terrified.

“So…should I talk to him about it?”

“Nah,” Daisy wrinkles her nose. “I’d just propose to him. It’s more romantic.”

“Really?! But - but aren’t you supposed to discuss it first? What if he says no?”

“I mean if he says no, then no loss, you just carry on as before, right? You got any special occasions coming up soon?”

“Well, I mean our anniversary is in a few weeks. We’re not doing anything big, just going for dinner.”

“Perfect,” says Daisy, nodding sagely. “Do it then.”

A giddy smile spreads across Martin’s face, and Daisy smiles inwardly. She does enjoy these lunches.

*

“All right,” says Jon. “Here’s the latest draft.”

“Sixth draft,” Basira notes, sipping her gin and tonic. Jon takes a deep breath.

“Martin,” he begins in declamatory style. “Over the past decade, my opinions of what is important and what is trivial have shifted drastically. You have shared in the experiences, good and bad, that have shaped those changes, and you understand the solemnity with which I say that the people I care for are the most important thing in my life. You are the person I care for most, and while I know that the idea of two people being together forever is trite - not to mention impossible - I want to come as close to that ideal as possible with you. I want our lives to be irrevocably entwined, and I want to be able to say that officially, _legally_ , I belong to you and you to me. Will you marry me?”

He pauses and gives Basira a hopeful look. She casts about for something to say.

“Well…it’s a bit shorter?”

“Right. You’re saying it still needs work.”

“It’s - there’s nothing wrong with what you’re _saying_ , Jon. It’s just - do you really need to make a speech at him?”

“It’s important to - to put it in context. To explain why I’m asking him. So he knows how much it means. How much _he_ means.”

“Okay, it’s just that right now it sort of sounds like you’re trying to convince him to say yes, and…that’s not the point of a proposal. Not these days. I’ve told you already, you need to talk to Martin about this in advance. The proposal can be a surprise, but the fact that you want to marry him shouldn’t be.”

“I - I know, I should…”

“But you’re not going to, right?”

Jon squirms uncomfortably, looking down at his drink. Basira sighs. If this man ever learns to have a real, honest conversation without having it dragged out of him, she’ll eat her left shoe. He’s just lucky that Martin’s crazy for him, and that Basira has Daisy on the case. She decides to take pity on him and change the subject.

“Did I tell you I heard from Melanie last week? She’s backpacking in Ecuador.”

*

“So how was your lunch with Martin?”

“Good,” says Daisy, scooting up on the sofa to make space. “That place does really nice sandwiches.”

Basira sets down two mugs of tea and then plops down beside her wife, reaching for the chocolate digestives on the table.

“I meant more on the…detective side of things?” she nudges. Daisy gives a wolfish grin, which Basira knows means trouble.

“Well he definitely wants to marry Jon, no worries there. Actually he’s going to propose.”

“Daisy…”

“On their anniversary.”

“Daisy!” Basira gasps, tapping her hand disbelievingly against Daisy’s shoulder. “I told you to find out if Martin would say yes when Jon proposes, not - not set up a rival proposal! You _know_ Jon’s planning to ask on their anniversary. I’ve been helping him with his proposal for two bloody months now.”

Daisy shrugs, and crunches into a biscuit.

“It’s funnier this way,” she says through a mouthful of crumbs. “If that pair of idiots can’t decide to get married without our help, they’ll take what they’re given. Besides, ‘s not like either of them’ll say no. Just a matter of who gets it out first.”

Basira stares at her for a few seconds. She’s always known Daisy is devious, but this is absolutely underhanded and devilish.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you,” she says, and Daisy grins again.

“Think we can get a table at the same restaurant that night?”

*

In the end they don’t see the proposals in person, because Daisy classes it too obvious, _poor surveillance technique._ She _does_ pay a waiter to film the whole thing on his phone, however, and though a little jumpy, the footage clearly shows the events.

They see Jon muttering under his breath as they finish dinner, clearly rehearsing. Martin patting his jacket pocket repeatedly. A bottle of champagne being popped, and then Jon sliding out of his chair to one knee as Martin fumbles out the ring box and extends it across the table. The two of them staring at each other in bewilderment for several long moments. Then both of them in their feet and talking at once, though the words can’t be heard, flustered and gesturing.

In the end the two of them come together, embracing, Martin laughing and Daisy swears that Jon is crying. They actually get a round of applause from the other diners, which Basira scoffs at.

“We didn’t make such a big deal out of getting married.”

“We’re not idiots,” Daisy reminds her, and kisses her temple.

“Do you think they’ll be annoyed when they figure it out?”

Daisy snorts.

“I’m expecting special thanks at the wedding.”


	11. Laughing Together - Jon/Michael

“I have a joke for you, Archivist.”

For a moment the Archivist looks deliciously startled, then simply wary. Michael sighs, mourning the loss for just a moment; startled is how they like the Archivist best.

“A joke?” the Archivist says. His eyebrows arch and then furrow, as if they can’t decide whether to be surprised or annoyed. “What on earth does that - no, actually, never mind. No, thank you.”

“You don’t want a joke?” Michael is not offended, as such, because a sense of rejection requires a sense of self. But they are surprised; humans are known to enjoy jokes.

“I, ah, let’s say I’m a little concerned about what you might consider to be a - a _joke_.” The Archivist’s voice is low and harsh and gentle at once. It is a pleasant static buzzing in Michael’s consciousness. Michael laughs, echoes rippling back and forth through their being.

“I have a wonderful sense of humor, Archivist.”

“I’m sure,” says the Archivist, not sounding very sure at all. Michael’s mouth stretches. He will see.

“A person goes to the doctor,” they say. “And tells the doctor that they’ve broken their arm in two places. So the doctor tells them to stay away from those places.”

The Archivist is looking at them with a questioning expression, his hands flat on the desk as if bracing for something unpleasant. Michael spreads their hands, wide and wider.

“It’s a joke. Because the doctor and the person didn’t understand each other. It’s often funny when people don’t understand each other.”

“I see,” says the Archivist carefully. “Well, thank you, Michael. That was, ah, very funny.”

“You didn’t laugh.” The Archivist’s mouth makes a rough noise that sounds a bit like a nervous dog. It isn’t a laugh. Michael sulks, and opens a door.

“I’ll find another joke for you, Archivist.”

“That’s fine, really - ” the Archivist starts to say, but Michael is already gone. They leave an echo of their own laugh behind to keep the Archivist company.

*

The Archivist never laughs, is the problem. Michael can’t remember if _they_ used to laugh before they were Michael, but they laugh a great deal now. Laughing makes things better.

The previous Archivist never laughed either, but she had her little jokes, didn’t she, behind those gimlet eyes? Jokes like frailty and age and reliance, like caring about her assistants. Michael doesn’t like to think about that, it makes things sharp and hot and angry, too many straight lines of pain and fear.

Michael thinks about killing the current Archivist, because the previous Archivist is gone, and because the Archivist is part of the Eye, and the Eye stares too hard. The Eye wants to see everything, to _know_ everything, and that can’t be allowed. Michael will have to kill the Archivist, eventually.

But the Archivist also has a sharp face with a wide, soft mouth; dark, curious eyes and a voice that is low and harsh and gentle all at once. The Archivist is interested, and _interesting_ , and looks lovely when he’s startled. Michael wants to hear how it sounds when he truly _laughs_.

They visit the Archivist more often, trying different jokes, different styles. Knock knocks and puns and jokes about chickens. Perhaps it’s just a matter of finding the right joke. None of them work. The Archivist only looks nervous or scared or frustrated, demands to know what Michael wants or pleads to be left alone.

Once the Archivist throws a stapler at Michael’s door, which is quite rude and uncalled for. Michael explains this, looming over his desk with their head brushing the ceiling. The Archivist trembles prettily, and apologizes quite sincerely for the transgression. 

Michael is forgiving, of course. They have a wonderful sense of humor.

*

The Archivist is being chased, by something large and meaty, with too many mouths full of teeth for the number of heads it has.

Michael watched the situation unfold, peaking through their door cracks as the Archivist’s curiosity led him from the dusty basement of the Magnus Institute to a warehouse stinking of blood and rotten meat. Anyone should have known better than to go inside, of course, but to a creature of Beholding death is preferable to an unsatisfied curiosity. Michael found the Archivist’s nervous investigation of the building rather charming, the beam of torchlight wavering ahead of his soft, hesitant footfalls.

None of that caution was enough to stop the Flesh sensing prey, rising up in a mass of sloughing muscle and rancid fat, all its mouths opening in unison. The Archivist looked so _beautifully_ surprised when it did.

And now Michael is following as the Flesh chases the Archivist, whose breath is ragged and panicked, his footfalls growing clumsy with exhaustion from the race. It’s only a matter of time before he stumbles, or trips, or simply isn’t quick enough to outrun the flowing, oozing mass of meat.

Michael watches with interest. Startled is how they enjoy the Archivist best, but terrified is also a very good look, widening his dark eyes and stretching his wide mouth thin. If the Flesh catches him, it will be a sight to see.

But on the other hand, if something kills the Archivist, Michael never will. And they still haven’t heard him laugh.

Michael doesn’t so much make a decision, as come to the end of a spiraling corkscrew of thought and tip off the end into action.

A door opens in the rough brickwork, and Michael sees the Archivist running towards it, eyes gleaming with sudden, desperate hope. The Archivist dives through, stands there heaving for breath as the Flesh barrels towards the doorway. Michael watches it, enjoying the chaotic way it moves.

“What are you doing?” the Archivist demands, unthinkingly grabbing Michael’s arm with his thin fingers. “That thing’s coming - shut the door!”

“I have a joke for you, Archivist.”

“Not now!” the Archivist pleads, fingers tightening on Michael’s arm. “Shut the _damn door!”_

“What’s red, and bad for your teeth?”

“Michael, _please!”_

“Well, Archivist?”

The Archivist gapes, wild eyed. The Flesh is so close Michael can smell it. It will be through the door in moments. The Archivist stutters frantically.

“I - I don’t know! What _is_ red and bad for your teeth?”

The door slams shut, and from the other side there is the distinct sound of something large and rotten colliding with a solid red brick wall, and splattering apart. Michael smiles.

“A brick.”

Several long seconds pass. Then the Archivist’s mouth twists, eyebrows curving in surprise, and he laughs. The sound is weak, breathless, and utterly sincere. It twists through Michael like music, like that buzzing static of the Archivist’s voice; it is very pleasant indeed.

The Archivist laughs, and sags to the floor, only then seeming to become aware that he is holding onto Michael’s arm. He lets go abruptly, and Michael misses the contact for a moment; the Archivist’s hand was very warm. They fold to the floor beside the Archivist, who is still laughing. He doesn’t stop laughing until he runs entirely out of breath.

“A brick,” the Archivist murmurs, shaking his head, dark eyes shining with tears. “I have to admit, that was a good one.”

Michael smiles once again. Perhaps this is a new way to enjoy the Archivist best. And now they see what kind of jokes the Archivist enjoys. 

Michael will have to think of some more practical jokes to play, next time they visit the Archives.


	12. Road Trip - Gerry/Michael Shelley

“Don’t go with her,” Gerry says. He grips Michael’s hand in his, the other still twisting through Michael’s hair, curling thick around Gerry’s fingers. 

“Sorry?” says Michael. He’s flushed from where Gerry was just kissing him, and looks bewildered at this sudden turn.

“Gertrude wants you to go on a trip with her, to Russia. _Zemlya Sannikova._ It’s not a real place. She’s taking you there to - well, not for anything good.”

“What - what do you mean, not a real place?” Michael asks. His voice catches, hesitant, and Gerry is overcome with a surge of fierce protectiveness. Michael is gentle and kind and funny, the best thing that’s happened to Gerry in a long time. Ever, if he’s honest about it. When he caught an inkling of what Gertrude was planning - well, she’s lucky Gerry isn’t a violent man by nature. 

“Come with me,” Gerry urges, ignoring the question. “You know this place is wrong, it’ll eat you if you stay. I’m sick of it too - my mum, Gertrude, acting as their errand boy. I’m getting out of here. Come with me.”

Gertrude can find some other poor fool to sacrifice, Gerry doesn’t care. Maybe that makes him selfish, but fuck it, he thinks he’s earned a bit of selfishness. Michael is staring at him wide-eyed, uncertain. He glances around, biting his lip, as if afraid they’re being watched. As if he _feels_ what’s watching them, even if he doesn’t know what it is. He’ll never have to know, if Gerry has anything to do with it. Then he nods, giving a little startled laugh, as if he’s shocked at himself. 

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Yes, let’s go.”

*

America is a good place to get lost. Michael’s never been to the States, and Gerry’s only been for work, only seen airports and industrial parks and the horrible things that happen. He’s never been on a road trip before. 

They buy a car, a vast, ancient Cadillac with a creaking convertible roof and a radio that’s stuck on a soft rock AM station. Gerry hands the owner a wad of notes and Michael gapes at him. 

“Where did all that money come from?” 

“My mum’s got plenty put away,” Gerry tells him. “Just my share for all the work I’ve done for her.”

Michael looks as if he’s about to ask more, but instead he just smiles, and steals the keys. Gerry lets him claim the driver’s seat, props his feet up on the dashboard and slings an elbow out the window.

They drive with no destination in mind, taking in the vastness of the countryside. Not just the landscape - everything is on a different scale here: broad, endless highways, cars the size of tanks, locals with enormous personalities and voices to match. It’s huge, and strange, and the more lost they are the happier Gerry is. 

They stop at tiny petrol stations in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but mountains or corn fields, where Michael buys every American snack he’s ever seen on television - Twinkies and Twizzlers and CornNuts. They’re mostly disgusting, but Reese’s Cups are a winner. 

They visit weird roadside attractions, corn mazes and diners festooned with alien memorabilia, eccentric architecture and World’s Largest Whatever. Gerry takes photos with an old Polaroid camera, and Michael looks happier than Gerry’s ever seen him. He supposes they both probably do.

*

They’re halfway across Iowa when Gerry catches eyes watching him in the mirror of a service station bathroom. They’re visible only for an instant, fixed and staring at him from the sketch of a face, and before he can really look at them they’re gone. 

“Fuck off,” he snarls, flicking water aggressively at the glass. His pulse is racing, and he feels a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades as he exits the bathroom. An unseen gaze still on his back. He doesn’t know if it’s his mum or Gertrude or something else entirely, and he doesn’t care. He’s done with all that.

It’s not long after that Michael starts to get ill. Weak and lethargic, at first, then feverish, as if he’s coming down with a flu. Gerry hopes desperately that’s all it is, but by the third day when Michael can barely stand up, he knows that’s not it. They bed down in a motel, and Gerry brings him water and aspirin, strokes his fever-damp hair back from his forehead and tries to think of anything he can do, anything that might help. 

“I think I need to go back,” Michael mumbles, half delirious. “I’ve been dreaming, about the Institute. It wants me back.”

_Fucking Beholding,_ Gerry thinks viciously. _Can’t you just let one person go?_

“You’ll be okay,” he says out loud. “I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I - I think it already has,” Michael laughs weakly. “You said it would eat me if I stayed. Looks like leaving didn’t help.”

Gerry stares down at him helplessly, and knows what he has to do. 

*

“Hello, Gerard. What can I do for you?” Bouchard’s voice is smooth and self-satisfied, and it turns Gerry’s stomach. He feels a sneer twisting his mouth at the sound.

“Michael Shelley,” Gerry says flatly. “I want him free and clear of all this.” 

There’s an amused silence at the end of the line, and then Bouchard says:

“Michael is an excellent employee, I’m not sure we can part with him. They miss him, down in the Archives. We were expecting him back quite soon.”

“I’m sure,” Gerry grits out. “But you can find another employee.”

“And in return…?”

*

Gerry doesn’t think about what Elias Bouchard might do with his mum’s hidden collection. Her most dangerous and sadistic possessions. It’s nothing to do with him, not anymore. 

He doesn’t think about what the man might do with his mum’s page, either. She long since gave up the right to his loyalty, and any twinge of guilt he might feel, he can live with it. The price is worth it, ten times over. 

*

Michael starts to feel better almost immediately, and within a day he’s back on his feet. They stay put for another day, though, until a courier knocks on the door. Gerry signs for the thin envelope and presents it to Michael with a flourish.

“Your official notice of termination from the Magnus Institute.”

Michael takes it, and gives him a long, assessing look. 

“You didn’t do something stupid, did you?”

“Always,” Gerry tells him, feeling almost giddy with relief. He catches Michael around the waist and kisses his cheek. Michael laughs, and then pushes him away, putting on a stern look.

“Gerry,” he insists, “You have to tell me what happened. I need to know.”

“You really don’t,” says Gerry, fervently. Except Michael’s expression is just this side of afraid, and much as Gerry might want to protect him from this knowledge, he knows he can’t. It’s Michael’s choice, and if he wants to know, it’s the least Gerry can do. 

“Tell you what,” he says. “Buy me coffee, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“I’ll buy you breakfast,” says Michael, and Gerry laughs and takes his hand.

“Then I’ll tell you everything else, as well.”


	13. Red Lace - Peter/Elias

Over the years, Elias has learned to tolerate Peter’s idiosyncrasies. The naval affectations, the terrible jokes, his tendency to disappear for weeks and months at a time without notice. Part of it is simply the price one pays for dallying with a creature of the Lonely – he’s quite sure Peter would have plenty of his own to say about Elias’ surveillance habits. The rest of it is thoroughly _Peter_ , with his overlarge personality that seems at times a defiant middle finger to his family’s dullness. For all Peter’s faults, Elias wouldn’t change him. Not by much, anyway.

Peter’s fondness for gambling lies somewhere between the poles of _Lonely urge_ and _personality_ _trait_. It serves his patron, to abstract cooperation behind a wager, obligation without connection. But equally, Peter enjoys making wagers, weighing the risks and the odds, the rush of uncertainty. Elias has seen the gleam in his eye over some ridiculous bet with Fairchild or Salesa, the triumphant grin when it comes out in his favor.

Elias isn’t much for gambling himself, but he does enjoy indulging Peter, if only because it makes Peter far more pliable when Elias wants something in return. He’s never seen the appeal of uncertainty; he thrives on seeing, on _knowing_. However he can work with a calculated risk, so once in a while, he’ll agree to play poker with Peter. They play the games fair, because Elias knows if he tries to peek at the cards, Peter will simply immerse them in the Lonely’s blankness, leaving them at a stalemate. They play mostly for favors, or for little trinkets. Occasionally, Elias will wager days of not watching Peter against days that Peter doesn’t disappear into the fog.

And sometimes, like today, they play for…other things. Elias wouldn’t normally suggest – or agree to – a game of strip poker. But Peter’s been away for close to six months, and Elias proposed the game with two ends in mind. Firstly, Peter often finds intimacy difficult after a long absence, and the game allows him to abstract their closeness just enough to be tolerable, while he eases back into the world. Secondly, it allows Elias to satisfy his deep craving to get Peter naked, without having to actually _ask_ for what he wants. 

And, well, the anticipation of what this will lead to is rather titillating. Times like this, Elias can some of the appeal of Forsaken: the longing for something just out of reach. Only when he knows he’ll get it in the end, though. Elias does not enjoy being denied what he wants entirely.

Elias wins the first hand, and Peter shrugs off his coat: hardly a sensual start. However as he turns to hang it over the back of his chair, Elias catches a flash of dark red inside the collar of Peter’s shirt. It’s gone in an instant, but Elias _knows_ he saw it, and he is suddenly _extremely_ invested in winning this game.

After Peter’s coat, Elias’ jacket goes next, then Elias’ belt, his cufflinks, and Peter’s shoes. On the next hand Elias wins, Peter leans down for his socks, and Elias sighs.

“Really, Peter,” he says in his best scornful tone, “Do _try_ to be interesting.”

“Am I boring you, then?” Peter drawls, but Elias sees the faint, amused curl to his lip, and instead he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Elias’ mouth goes dry as a latticework of red straps are revealed, stretching from Peter’s throat, banding across his chest and vanishing down beneath his trousers. The straps are fragile red lace and silk, strung together through a series of thin, silver rings. Peter is a large man, thick across the chest and arms and belly, and there is something in the sight of those delicate strands crisscrossing his hairy, muscular form, that makes Elias’ breath catch in his throat. The awareness that Peter’s done this for _him_ , knowing what game they’d be playing tonight, is utterly exciting.

“My, Peter,” he breathes. Peter preens and stretches, the thin straps going taut as he does.

“All yours,” he says agreeably, and Elias can’t help laughing. Despite everything, Peter really is thoroughly charming.

“May I suggest we take this into the bedroom?” Elias asks, his eyes raking over Peter’s chest. “I have a pressing need to see the rest of that ensemble.”

“Must be the Beholding in you, dear. But in case you forgot, we’re still playing a game.”

“I’m afraid I’m far too distracted to play anymore,” Elias says, standing up and starting to unbutton his shirt, enjoying the way Peter’s eyes follow his fingers.

“Are you conceding, then?” Peter asks, teasing. Elias shrugs his shirt off and starts on his trousers.

“I’d call it unfair tactics on your part,” Elias says, trying and failing to sound irritated. “But yes, absolutely, you win. As long as you take the rest of your damn clothes off and come into the bedroom.”

“There’s still the matter of _what_ I win,” says Peter, getting to his feet and coming around the table. Elias huffs in annoyance, kicking off his shoes, and Peter’s arm slides around his waist, tugging him easily against Peter’s broad chest. He tips his head up as Peter leans down to kiss him, deep and wet and hungry, and Peter is grinning as they break apart.

“I suppose that’ll do,” he says. Elias smirks, and flicks one of the lacy straps, enjoying Peter’s little wince as it snaps against his skin.

“To start,” Elias tells him. “Get the rest of it off, and then we’ll see.”


End file.
